


12th Perigee's Eve Radio Hour

by quartile



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 12th perigee's eve, Christmas, Christmas Carols, Christmas songs, Gen, Holiday Music, Homestuck Secret Santa 2016, M/M, Meteorstuck, Post-Retcon Meteor, can you identify the songs?, davekat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8918542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartile/pseuds/quartile
Summary: “And we’re back, coming to you live from the furthest fetid rectal passages of Outer Paradox Space with your favorite songs of 12th Perigee’s Eve.”“You’re not on the radio, you jerks.” Vriska sits cross-legged on the floor in the common room. “The only thing you’re 'broadcasting' is an annoyingly grating whiner and a gibberish-spouting douche.”“Disregard her,” says Rose. “When free will is limited and diversions are few, exercising one’s imagination is a recognized way of preserving sanity. Plus, the music gives me a frisson of nostalgia for the season. Please continue.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MoonPaw17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonPaw17/gifts).



“And we’re back, coming to you live from the furthest fetid rectal passages of Outer Paradox Space with your favorite songs of 12th Perigee’s Eve.”

“You’re not on the radio, you jerks.” Vriska sits cross-legged on the floor in the common room, casting her dice across the tiles without looking to see what she’s rolled. “The only thing you’re 'broadcasting' is an annoyingly grating whiner and a gibberish-spouting douche. Not like either of you needs to be wired for sound. I bet they can hear you in Can Town.”

“Disregard her,” says Rose. “When free will is limited and diversions are few, exercising one’s imagination is a recognized way of preserving sanity.” She’s curled up on the sofa, adding rows to the scarf she’s knitting. “Plus, the music gives me a frisson of nostalgia for the season. Please continue.”

You give Vriska the finger. “Here’s a request: ‘In Which the Singer’s Lusus Is Observed in Apparently Flushed Circumstances with a Visitor from the Polar Region.’” You tap a button on Dave’s sound system and a childish voice begins to sing.

Dave slides onto the bench beside you. He’s carrying two mugs of hot apple juice with a curl of aromatic bark in each. “Pretend it’s mulled cider. That’s the closest I could get to cinnamon sticks.” He looks over the playlist. “Lame, dude. No ‘Santa Baby’? No ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’”

“Don’t like, don’t DJ,” you say flatly. “Get your own damn radio show.”

“You’re not on the radio! Hello?” says Vriska. “Stop playing make-believe like wigglers.”

“My turn.” Dave finds the track he’s looking for and taps a button. A pianist begins to sing in a nasal brogue over simple chords. Dave hoists his mug of hot juice and starts to sing along. “It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank...”

“What the fuck is this?” you say, pounding the pause button.

“A heartfelt ballad,” Dave says.

“No. No drunks in drunk tanks on 12th Perigee’s Eve. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I wanted you to hear it. But since you wouldn’t know good music if it moved into your block and brought you breakfast in bed, here’s something more your speed. Alvin and the Chipmunks.” Dave cues up the song. “For Karkat, here’s ‘Trio of Anthropomorphic Rodents Begs Personified Holiday to Deliver Specific Gifts Punctually.’ Hit it.” He stretches out on the bench, using your thigh as a pillow. “Don’t let me distract you.”

“What the fuck do rodents have to do with human culture?” you ask. 

“Everything,” he says, tugging at your free hand and planting it in his hair. “They pull Cinderella’s coach, they come to save the day, they run entertainment empires in Florida...”

“Are you still taking requests?” asks Rose. “There are entire centuries’ worth of Christmas music that you’ve completely neglected.” She stands a moment and begins to sing, “This little babe, so few days old, has come to rifle Satan’s fold...”

Dave sits up to stare at her. “‘Rifle Satan’s fold’? No way that’s a real Christmas song.”

“Au contraire,” she says. “Sixteenth century carols were badass.”

“Fuck yeah, let’s play that,” he says.

You select a childhood favorite for your next turn. “Here’s to everyone listening at home, decorating their hives, dragging in fresh carcasses for their lusii. Congratulations, you’ve managed to get through another day without being culled, let us rejoice and be fucking mirthful.” You press play on “A Frigid Abomination Constructed from Spheres of Frozen Water Droplets Becomes Unexpectedly Animated, However, This Proves to Be Short-Lived Due to a Fatal Vulnerability to Heat.” You secretly always wanted to be one of the wigglers that the Frigid Abomination chose to laugh and play until the sun rose and melted him away.

“My turn,” Dave says. His head is in your lap again. Unseen by the others, you comb your fingers through his hair, as if soothing a napping meowbeast. Vriska’s dice strike the floor again and again. Your wrist crab buzzes and you check the tiny screen. 

“Not yet. We have a request from Terezi in Can Town.” 

“Pfft, called it, loudmouth,” says Vriska, smirking.

“Bite me.” You squint. “Looks like ‘A Wiggler Complains That His Lack of Frontal Fangs Inhibits His Ability to Articulate an Appropriate Message of the Season.’ There’s a dedication: ‘Hey Sollux, is this you? Wish you were here.’ Wow, Terezi, way to be insensitive. Some people can’t help how they talk. But yeah, I miss him too.” 

As Terezi’s dedication plays, the transportalizer chirrups and Kanaya arrives. “Has your program ended or is there time for one more request?” she asks, handing you a piece of paper.

This one seems oddly appropriate, coming from her. You find and play “In a Time of No Sound and No Sunlight, a Grub Inexplicably Hatched from the Genetic Material of Only One Adult Requires Rest.” After all the novelty songs, the traditional carol shifts the mood in the room. Rose stows her knitting, standing to accompany Kanaya back to their block. Vriska picks up her dice and hops on the transportalizer. “Later, nerds. Remember, day after tomorrow we’re back to training. Be there.” 

With just the two of you left in the common room, Dave says, “My turn now.” He sits up. “I want you to hear this. The whole thing.”

“Not your drunk tank ballad again?”

“Please, Santy Claus.” He scoots closer. “I been good.”

“Fine, I’m listening,” you say. “What’s it called?”

Dave restarts the song. “You can call it, ‘Intoxicated Matesprits Reminisce About Past Events That Led to Their Present Questionable Circumstances While Expressing Hope for the Future.’ By a band whose original name meant ‘Kiss My Ass.’”

“Seems legit,” you say, settling in against his side as he quietly sings along.

_“Got on a lucky one,_  
_Came in eighteen to one,_  
_I’ve got a feeling this year’s for me and you._  
_So happy Christmas,_  
_I love you, baby,_  
_I can see a better time_  
_when all our dreams come true.”_


End file.
